


take me for all that I am

by ahsokatanos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Marvel - Freeform, bucky and wanda, just general angst and bucky sadness, they're just really lonely, winter witch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9537179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahsokatanos/pseuds/ahsokatanos
Summary: He wakes along with the sun, and he finds its light to be less than cheering. Until, of course, a second shadow joins his.





	

HE was always the first to rise. 

When the sun first peered over the horizon, he was awake. When the earliest songbirds mounted their branches and began their symphony, he was awake. When a fine mist spread over the compound's acres like a quiet veil of desolation, he was awake. He was awake. He was awake. He was always awake. Always awake. Never truly sleeping. Never. 

This morning was like every other. Silent, dark, a chill spreading through the glassy halls because this was the time during which the heating system paused, intervening in order to blow its warmth through the other side of the compound. He laid in his bed, unmoving since his blue eyes had snapped open, spurred by the usual phantom faces of his handler, his victims. He doubted very sincerely he would ever get used to the softness of the mattress beneath his back, the blankets against his fingertips. His human fingertips. 

Bucky disentangled himself from the sheets, yanking them from about his waist, and slung his legs over the side of the bed. He rested his elbows upon his knees, raking his hands through his dark hair with a defeated sigh. Why was it he always felt as if he had never slept a moment in his life? The heaviness never seemed to leave his eyelids, the laziness never waning from his bones. [Get up. Stop moping, you know you're safe now. You're safe. Steve's here. You're safe.]

He got up. Because it was early, and his sharp ears picked up no soft footfalls throughout the facility, Bucky didn't bother slipping on any shirt, simply remaining in his disheveled drawstring pants and gathering his thick hair into an up-do of sorts. He checked the time. Barely five in the morning. The moon had not begun to think of fading. Without a sound, Bucky snatched up an athletic bag and strode out of his room. 

Roaming through the halls, he could hear soft breathing from various levels of the compound. This was the only time any of these people were at all vulnerable, he thought. In the dead of night when half the world was at rest. 

A few journeys down a few hallways, a few rides down a few elevators. He arrived at the training room, which he had begun to think of as his room, seeing as he spent the most time down there. Steve had told him once that punching the lights out of few sandbags never hurt anything. The practice had become a lifeline for Bucky. Wake up before the sun and pummel a poor punching bag just to keep his hands from shaking throughout the day. His anger never seemed to fade. 

He dropped the duffle carelessly and meandered towards the pile of punching bags that reached nearly to the ceiling, the stock a gift from Tony, who, upon realizing how swiftly Bucky tore through them, decided he should have plenty on-hand. [At least he's not still glaring at you when he thinks you're not looking. At least he's less afraid. At least he's alright with you staying here. At least, at least, at least . . .]

Bucky wrapped his fleshed knuckles carefully, with delicacy that surprised even him. He did not deserve to be careful with himself. 

He approached the sandbag. Raised his fists. One strike. As if someone had lit a match in Bucky's chest, the fury ignited within him, licking at his insides like hellfire. Two seamless poundings into to stiff burlap. Fire took the place of blood in his veins, burning him, searing him, engulfing him. His fists hammered against the bag, from each punch jumping a low thud that echoed through the gym. His muscles screamed for relent, a steady ache tearing at his arms and thighs and the knot in which he had tied his hair shook loose, sweat-sodden strands hanging over his eyes, plastered against his cheeks, his drawn lips. Bucky did not stop. He beat the punching bag bloody, mindless and savage, beyond the extent of practice, or building skill. He envisioned ribs breaking beneath his knuckles, jaws shattering, heads lolling. Just whose ribs, or jaw, or skull, he was unsure. He only knew they were going to die. 

"It is a bit unfair, don't you think?" A quiet, curious voice said, disrupting the silence. 

The sudden query startled Bucky, and in reaction to the fear his cybernetic arm flew forward and struck the bag with so much force, had it been anyone else, their arm would have shattered. But not Bucky. He watched with wild eyes as the punching bag soared across the gymnasium, colliding with the far wall and flopping to the floor like a slouching corpse. 

Bucky turned towards the voice. A frightened, cautious pair of forest green eyes met his. Heart-shaped lips were agape with surprise, the lighthearted words long gone from their prose. Slender, pale fingers anxiously gripped a coffee mug, long chestnut tresses tangled and tied back from a round face.

"Wanda," Bucky sighed, his heart slowing, then kicking again for reasons he could not explain. "I-I'm sorry, you surprised me." [Why is your voice shaking?] "What did you say?" 

"I . . ." Her eyes lingered on the discarded punching bag, and Bucky winced. He hadn't meant to scare her. [Well, she shouldn't have snuck up on you.] Nevertheless, he could not help the guilt that inked through him. He knew Wanda well enough, not much past polite "good mornings," or, "Steve wants us in the briefing rooms." Perhaps Bucky had become intrigued by the young woman whose mind seemed in as many shambles as his. Perhaps he had not. 

[You haven't.] He had. 

"I said that it was not fair," Wanda continued, her lips curving up slightly [Has her smile always been so nice? Stop, stop, she's trying to talk to you. She's probably crazy. She probably knows you are, too.] 

"That punching bag cannot fight back. Not exactly an even match."

As she spoke, Bucky suddenly became aware of the fact that he had neglected to bring a spare shirt with him—no one else was supposed to be awake. He could do nothing but stand with the hard muscles of his stomach displayed for a near stranger. Her eyes flitted over his chest, and it made him squirm. 

"Could you make it an even fight?" He lifted an eyebrow, and Wanda recognized the playful challenge, even if Bucky did not. [Are you flirting with her? Don't flirt with her. That won't end well.] 

"Oh," Wanda chuckled softly, setting down her mug and crossing her arms and taking a step toward him. [Don't.] "I do not think that is a question you want answered." 

Her voice was slightly haggard, weighed with sleep and the exhaustion was apparent beneath her eyes, in the droopiness of her lashes. But he caught the teasing in her tone and could not, for the life of him, stop the half-hearted laugh that broke past his cracking lips. 

"You're funny." He told her, almost choking on his heart leaping into his throat. She giggled. He made her laugh. It gave him an odd feeling. It made his stomach erupt in a flock of fluttering creatures that filled him with a sense of boyish accomplishment. [It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.] 

"Could you show me how you do that?" Wanda spoke up suddenly, and in the same instant Bucky realized how pleasant her accent was. "Natasha says my stance is always imbalanced."

"D-Do what?" He stumbled. "Punch . . . the bag?" 

"Mhm," she agreed with a nod. "Unless, you don't want to. I know you are probably tired—"

"No, no," Bucky lifted a hand. "It's fine. Just a second . . ."

He strode over to the spare bags and snatched one up by its chain, lifting the hundred-pound cylinder over his head with astounding ease that Wanda could not help but notice. He hung the thing in the place of the last, fastening the chain firmly to its hook. Bucky motioned Wanda stand before it. 

"She says you're imbalanced?"

Wanda nodded.

"Okay. Well, first off, your arms are too close together," without forethought, he reached and took her wrists and moved them a few more inches apart. He almost flinched away, shocked that she did not. "It's throwing you off." He continued, taking an involuntary step closer to Wanda, feeling as if someone else was controlling his arms and legs like a puppeteer. 

[What are you doing? What are you doing?] 

"And your hips," his voice was not his own, it was that of someone with a sane head on their shoulders. "Need to face . . . this way." His hands hovered above her waist, and, upon realizing he was asking for permission, Wanda nodded again. "It's fine." 

So his palms directed her hips to face the punching bag, and it was all Bucky could do to keep them from shaking. [Why isn't she afraid? Why isn't she scared you'll rip her in half? Why is she letting you touch her?] He pulled his hands away. 

"Take a swing."

Wanda struck the bag, and it quivered feebly in response. She laughed at herself. "That was pathetic." 

Bucky grinned, a real, shining grin. "You'll get better. It takes a while."

She shrugged, pursing her lips against her continued chuckles. "I suppose we both rely on our gifts from Hydra," she gestured to his left arm, then pressed a finger to her temple. "If you can call them gifts."

Bucky gazed at her quietly. He had forgotten about her history with Hydra. He had forgotten that she was a witch. [Maybe she thinks you're afraid of her. Are you?]

He was. But not in the way he should have been. He should have been afraid of the scarlet energy that snaked from her fingers and wrapped around throbbing necks. He should have been afraid of the doorway into his mind that would open itself to her at any time she pleased. But he was not. He was most frightened of those wide, surveying eyes and her heart-shaped mouth that formed a smile that sent tremors down his spine. 

[You're insane.]

Well, what else was new?

"Why are you awake?" Bucky asked her suddenly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "No one's ever up when I come down here."

She was quiet for a long while. She tugged at her fingers, suddenly anxious, suddenly closing up again. [Please don't so that, please keep talking to me.] Wanda fought his stare, trying so fiercely to pretend she had not heard him. But she had, and she could feel his eagerness to know her answer. She could feel his desperation for someone to relate to him, in any way, in the smallest way. Wanda let go of her hesitance, and met his eyes. 

"You are not the only one who has trouble sleeping, Bucky."

He could not respond. The words would not fall into his head. His tongue was barren. And then a spark went off in his mind, a spark that belonged to a young man in 1945 whose chest was swelling with excitement for his recent promotion to sergeant. The corner of his mouth tilted up slightly, and for a moment, he felt at ease. [Tell me more. Tell me everything. Anything. I'll listen. Please.]

He took in a shaky, unsure breath. "Do you . . . want to talk about it?" 

Wanda pressed her lips together, tucking a piece of fallen hair behind her ear. With a soft, half-smile, she dipped her head. "I do."

[And suddenly mornings did not seem so tiresome.]

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING!  
> This ficlet is also posted on my Wattpad! (same user as this lol)  
> I really hope you all enjoyed!


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